


can't dance a single step

by Kuroeia (Empatheia)



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-07
Updated: 2008-06-07
Packaged: 2018-10-05 21:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10316879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empatheia/pseuds/Kuroeia
Summary: He is so sick of destiny.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written on request.
> 
> **Prompter:** taekwonangel on LJ  
>  **Prompt:** "You! Me! Dancing!" by Los Campesinos (song)

_and it's all flailing limbs at the front line_

_every single one of us is twisted by design_

_and dispatches from the back of my mind_

_say so long as we're here_

_everything is all right_

 

Meltokio's club is hard to find, for outsiders, but for those who have lived there all their lives it is only a matter of walking down a particular narrow alleyway and through a door painted roguishly red.

 

The music is ecstatic, garish, wildly colourful. There are no apologies here.

 

Zelos may be something close to royalty in his mansion, in the streets, in the hallways of the castle, but here he is only a boy with angry hair and fluid limbs and a heart full of pain to dance away. No one says a word when he comes in. The wall of humanity on the dance floor does not give way for him. He must slide in like everyone else, writhe his way through the sea of twisting bodies, until he is immersed and lost. Here he is no one, and yet everyone all at once. It is a rare solace.

 

He is not a good dancer, but no one cares.

 

There is a girl. He has seen her here before. She is small, and soft, with cascades of blonde trailing down her back and a mischievous light in her black eyes. She sways gently against him in contrast to the harsh pounding of the music. Her skirt is tiny and red, her lips glossy and pink, her flowing long-sleeved top a shade of innocent white despite the expression on her face.

 

She does not know who he is. He can see it in her eyes, the frank interest and lack of fear. Nobody looks at him like that when they know what he's destined for, however much they simper and flirt. They are all too afraid to love him when they know he's going to die. He can tell the difference.

 

Zelos presses aginst her, unable to help himself against the crushing need for touch and acceptance. Her arms slip around his waist, spritely fingers dancing against his spine, mouth opening to let her teeth graze his nipple through his shirt. She is shameless in her desire, smiling sweetly against his chest and completely unafraid.

 

It is hot in the club. The air is sticky with sweat and desire and the heavy smell of freedom.

 

Their hips gyrate against each other smoothly, intuitively. His arousal presses against her belly. He knows she can feel it when she twists herself forward, crushing it between them and making him groan against her damp forehead. He knows it for an invitation when she takes his hand and leads him away through the swamp of bodies, through a door to a hallway echoing with emptiness and the absence of music.

 

Zelos takes her up against the wall, provocative little red skirt hitched up over her hips and her breath loud and desperate in his ear. He does not know her name, she does not know his, and that is how it should be. How it _must_ be. Neither of them know anything about each other beyond the texture of their skin and the taste of their kisses. He knows that neither of them will ask. They don't want to know. This is not about people, not about hearts nor souls nor love. It is about freedom and connection and an understanding deeper than any conversation could take them.

 

Even so, he does love her a little for this. He is so sick of destiny.

 

x

 

In the morning he wakes up in bed, a manservant standing at the door wearing a long-suffering expression.

Zelos Wilder is Chosen.

Zelos Wilder has no choice.

He thinks of the girl, and silently begs her to remember him when destiny comes for its due.

 

**X**


End file.
